


A Little Home Cookin'

by Pennyplainknits



Series: Platypus [1]
Category: Bandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Noir, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-07 00:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3154091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pennyplainknits/pseuds/Pennyplainknits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are 5,000 miles between Las Vegas and the Windy City. Call it five days drive, with a half-decent motor car and fair weather. More than enough time for a man to change his mind, turn around, and head back from whence he came.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Home Cookin'

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sadiane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sadiane/gifts).



> This is the sequel to The Cat's Miaow- I had so much fun writing Bill I had more to say. Thanks so much to Girlpearl, concinnity and Mel for the cheerleading and to sadiane for the original idea. Beta and formatting rescue by Melusina <3

There are 5,000 miles between Las Vegas and the Windy City. Call it five days drive, with a half-decent motor car and fair weather. More than enough time for a man to change his mind, turn around, and head back from whence he came.

I weighed the odds at every gas station. Every roadside diner. Every cheap motel. Then I kept right on driving.  

At least the ride was smooth. Two days before I'd finally put Sin City in the rear view mirror, I'd found my old Dodge replaced by a spanking new Cadillac. A last goodbye from Gabriel, who, in typical fashion, brushed it off as part of my wages.  

"You earned it," he said.  

"And I was paid in full," I tried to reason with him.  

"Then call it a parting gift, mijo.” He kissed my cheek, hilariously chaste after all that we had done. "If you're determined to do this, at least you can get there in style."  

Settling back into the leather seat and hearing the engine purr underneath me, I felt my irritation fade away. It was certainly a more comfortable journey than I'd envisaged, even if what was waiting for me at the other end might be anything but.  

I put the heat on as I hit Missouri, and told myself turning around was still not an option. 

***  

The last of the fall leaves crunched under my feet as I walked up to the door of the cheap hotel. Patrick's contact could wait until tomorrow; it was too late to go calling in favours. Driving through memories is an exhausting process.  

The concierge took my money and didn't ask questions. Seems it still paid not to, in this neighbourhood. I swung the key from my index finger as I climbed the stairs, night already closing in. I hung Patrick's hat, stolen before I set out, from the peg on the back of the door, and took off my tie and shoes. The single bulb cast long shadows across the room. The bed was narrow, but the sheets were clean. I've certainly laid my head in worse places. The long drive was catching up with me, a week of questions and second guesses suddenly weighing heavy on my shoulders. I stretched out on the bed and closed my eyes, the rattle of the El soothing me like a long-forgotten lullaby.  

***  

The next morning, hat brushed and note in hand, I set out to find more permanent lodging. The address, written out in Pete's neat capitals, led me to a locked-up bar, sleeping the day away and waiting to wake up for the night. The lake wind blew around my ears, tugging at the ends of my hair. Patrick's hat was at least keeping some of me warm.   

Strange, how little things come back to you. The wind whispering around my head, chapping my hands, how it always seemed to carry the hint of snow, even in fall. How I'd forgotten it's sharpness, the sting of it against my cheek, as I got used to the desert heat. It was just the first of many things I'd have to get used to again.  One of the many things I'd been happy to leave behind.  

“Hey, Mr! You looking for Mr Crawford?"  

I realised I'd been staring unseeing at the door, oblivious to the bustle around me. I turned my attention to the newsboy, leaning against the wall along with his bike.  

"I was," I said, "I see I shall have to come back later."   

"Then can you move so I can leave the newspaper?" The boy spoke slowly, like he was explaining a difficult concept. I stepped aside and the newspaper thudded onto the stoop, the kid cycling away with a derisory shake of his head.  

I pulled my scarf more closely around my neck and stuffed my hands into my pockets. I'd passed a library on the walk from the El, and it would be a better bet than waiting out on the street until I could call in on Patrick's contact.  

The library was warm, even if the librarian herself was frosty.  

She left me alone in the reference section but watched with a suspicious eye. I'd made a list of books I'd need to buy, those I might borrow, if i was going to follow through on the night school plans I'd made. I had savings for several months but money would, eventually, be an issue, and there was no sense in spending more than I'd need. Falling back on my former career, lucrative though it was, wasn't an option. I wasn't that person. Not any more.   

I waved at the librarian as I left. She ignored me. Can't win them all.   

The bar was open when I tried for the second time, though it wasn't late enough for the lushes to have settled in. I could hear the blues, filtering out into the street. A meandering riff from nimble fingers greeted me as I opened the door. There were several men propping up the bar, a bartender polishing glasses ready for the evening. He raised an eyebrow at me as I got closer.  

"Bourbon" I said. He poured me two fingers and I set the money down on the bar.  

"Also," I said, as he counted the coins. "I'm looking for a Mr Crawford. A friend said I might find him here?"  

"Who's asking?" he asked, pausing in his counting.   

"My name's William Beckett," I said. "I haven't met Mr Crawford, but I'm new in town. We have a mutual friend, Mr Stump. He recommended I look him up."  

I smiled, hopefully. My explanation seemed to satisfy him because he jerked his head in the direction of the music.  

"He's warming up now. First session is in forty minutes. My boss won't thank you if you make him late."  

I left him the change and carried my whiskey across the bar. The guitarist's hat shaded his face as he ran through chords and snatches of song. A few curls of dark hair escaped to brush the back of his collar. I set my glass down on the table and he looked up at the sound.  

"Mr Crawford?" I asked. This close he was young. Younger than me, not the grizzled local character I'd been half-expecting from Patrick's description. He took the hat off and the curls fell into his face, springy and undisciplined.  

"Yes," He said. Then "Do I know you?"  

I sat down, stretching my legs out.  

"No, but you know a friend of mine. Patrick Stump. He gave me this to give to you."  

I pulled out the letter of introduction. Maybe it was slightly old-fashioned. Patrick could have sent a telegram, even called, but I appreciated that he'd given me the choice.   

"Oh, Patrick!" His smile was mischievous. "Yeah, our paths have crossed. He still in the detective business?"  

"He even took on a partner," I nodded. "Things are going great."  

"Are you here working for him? Following a lead?" he asked. He sipped the beer on the table next to him and twisted one of the tuning pegs, plucking the string softly.  

"I'm not working for him, Mr Crawford," I said.  

"Oh, it's Ian," he corrected. "Not much call for formality here."   

"Ian," I said. "Patrick said you were a good person to get to know, if a man was new in town. If he needed help finding his feet."  

"I know people who know people," there was that smile again. "Are you? New in town?"  

I spun the empty glass between my palms.   

"I may as well be," I said. "I was born in Chicago. But I quit this town a long time again. They say you can't ever really come home again."  

Ian twisted the next peg.  

"You know, you haven't told me your name," he said  

I held out my hand. "My apologies. William Beckett." He shook my hand, rough callouses like Ryan's chafing my palm.   

"Pleasure to meet you," He said. "William, or Bill?"  

I weighed it in my mind, trying it out. What both names meant. "Let's try Bill," I said.   

"Any reason Patrick thought you needed my help, Bill?" Ian said.  

"My friends worry," I said. "Coming back here was something I'd sworn never to do. I think Patrick wanted to make sure I wasn't set adrift."  

"What are you here for?" Ian asked. He had that air all good bartenders and call girls had, inviting you to trust him.  

"A new start," I said. It wasn't the whole story, but he didn't get that. Not on a first meeting. "This place has bad memories. I'd like to make some good ones. As for how you could help," I finished my whiskey. "I've got no job, no place to stay, no people I know, or at least, that I'd care to know again. Help with any and all would be a good start.   

Ian turned the last peg and strummed a few chords.  

"I might know some people looking to hire, for a friend of Patrick's. I'm almost sure I can suggest a place for you to live, as long as you don't mind a roommate?"  

"I'm saving for evening classes," I said. "Sharing the bills is fine by me."  

Under Ian's fingers, a 12 bar blues began to take shape.  

"A scholar and a gentleman, I see," he said, smiling at me.  

"I'm not sure I'd go quite that far," I said "I've done things no gentleman should do."  

"Haven't we all?" Ian smiled at me. "And Patrick says you're one of the good guys. He writes quite the letter of introduction."  

Patrick's praise, his trust, was hard earned as mine was, and it made me feel a little less cold to know that I had it.  

"Thank you," I said, standing. "I'm staying at the Comfort Hotel on 67th, for now. You can reach me there. Anything you could suggest would be a help. I've got some money saved, enough that it's not urgent, but the sooner I start working the sooner I can buy books."  

"Stick around for the show," he said. "Tell Jerry I said to give you another whiskey on the house."  

"I don't think he's too impressed with me," I said. "He already warned me not to make you late, that your boss wouldn't take kindly to it."  

"I'm sure I can be lenient with me, if I am late," Ian grinned, and pushed his curls out of his face before putting the hat back on. "I like to think I'm an understanding boss."  

"All this is yours?" I asked. I tried not to sound too surprised, but this was a big joint, and he looked younger than Spencer.  

"My uncle left it to me," Ian said. "I came here from out West to run the place. All I ever wanted to do was play guitar. This way, I can pay the bills too. Go get your whiskey, Mr Beckett. I'll be in touch."   

***  

There was a small crowd at the night school enrollment, people huddled against the iron radiators and looking at class lists pinned to the green baize noticeboards. It wasn't the school I'd attended as a child, but it had the same feeling. The same squeaky tile floors, same scent of chalk dust in the air. I felt I could turn the corner into the lunch room and still find Mrs Robson, tutting over bruises I couldn't hide and trying to give me more potatoes.  

I'd half made-up my mind which class to take, but I read the prospectus carefully just in case, deciding which i could afford and how much time I could spare. I joined the line to sign up. The ladies in front of me, cosy in matching hats, chatted excitedly about their typing classes and secretarial exams. I reached the front of the line and the clerk wrote my name on the lists for composition and introduction to law.  

"Here are your reading lists and semester dates," he said, passing typed sheets across the desk. "And will you be paying in installments, or all at once?"  

"Up front," I said, and opened my pocket book.  

"Someone's flush," the clerk at the next desk remarked, and I froze. It was a rookie mistake, bringing the wrong kind of attention. Flashing too much cash around was asking to be rolled for it.  

"Jenkins. Try a little less chatting and a little more attention to your own work." The clerk said sharply. He turned back to me "My apologies, Sir. This is Mr Jenkin's first week and his...exuberance tends to run away with him."  

I let out my breath. This was a _school_ not a gambling den. Full of steady working people hoping to learn french or accountancy or introduction to rhetoric. The little old lady signing up for basket weaving was probably not going to assault me for my life savings. I was probably safe. The new environment had my hackles raised.   

"And your receipt," the clerk was saying as I dragged my attention back. "Classes start next week”  

"Thank you," I said, but he was already looking past me to the next person in line.  
 

***  

I found myself at Ian's place again, turning the car out of the school's parking lot towards the bar, rather than the hotel. I didn't want another night of staring at the brown walls and wondering if I'd made the right choice. It was the conversation was missing most- with Gabriel and the rest of my clients-with Pete and Ryan and Spencer. I'd become adapt at being alone with my thoughts but that didn't mean I liked it.   

The bar was heating up for the evening when I arrived and it took me several minutes to get served. It was a different bartender this time, blue eyes that reminded me Spencer's and blond hair a shade too long. He smiled at me. It was a pretty nice smile.  

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said. "What can I get you?"  

“Whiskey," I said.  

"Cheap stuff or the good stuff?" He asked, hand hovering over the bottles.  

"Let's go for the good stuff," I said. He poured the glass and i knocked back a mouthful. He laughed at the face I pulled.  

"I'd hate to think what the cheap stuff's like," I said.  

"Cleans silver.” he winked at me, and topped up the glass.  

I nursed my drink and chatted with the barkeep as he passed. It always pays to be nice to them. Maybe one day I'd graduate to the really good stuff  

"This your first time here?" he asked as I finished my glass. He'd gotten progressively more attentive as the night wore on.   

"No," I said. "But this is the first time in a long time I've been in town."  

“Sounds like there's a story there," he said. "But if you're new in town, I could let you know the hot spots." he leaned a little more than he needed to across the bar, close enough that I could whisper in his ear, if I wanted to. I wasn't sure if I wanted.  

"Bill!" Ian's interruption spared me the decision. "Back so soon?"  

"Can't stay away," I joked. "Though I'm not sure this whiskey is worth coming back for," I gestured with my glass and Ian bent his head to sniff.  

"Tell Sean you want the reserve next time," he smiled, impishly. "I keep it for special patrons."  

I'm flattered," I said. I watched the barkeep-Sean?- move away. Clearly flirting on the clock wasn't something to do in front of the boss.  

"You should be," Ian said. “Oh, I checked, and I do have a lead on a place for you to stay, if you don't mind sharing?"  

"I think I'd be glad of the company," I said.   

Ian pulled a notebook from his pants pocket and scribbled down an address.  

"I'll check tomorrow," I said, noticing the hour. Knocking doors this late wouldn't make the best impression.   

"You do that," Ian said, nodding his head. "You do that."   

***

The address Ian gave me lead up a flight of steps to a green front door. I leaned on the bell marked “T McCoy” and waited as the lake wind made the trees rustle. I tucked my chin further down into the collar of my coat, and regretted not pulling on my driving gloves  

The door opened. There aren't many people I have to look up to, but the man on the other side of the threshold was one of them. He had a smudge of dirt or dust across one brown cheek, and more on his long fingers.  

“I'm looking for Mr McCoy,” I said, when he looked at me enquiringly.  

“You've found him,” he said.  

“Mr Crawford said you might be looking for a roommate,” I said. The wind picked up, and I shivered, despite my best efforts.  

“Oh, come in.” He stood back to make room. “Sorry, it's cold out, I shouldn't make you wait on the stoop.” He looked charmingly contrite.   

“Thank you,” I said, stepping into the welcome warmth of the entry hall. “And I'm Bill Beckett.”  

“Travis,” McCoy said. We shook hands and I tried to discreetly brush the dust off on my pants. Not discreetly enough, because he chuckled and said, “Sorry about that, I wasn't expecting company.”  

“So, you aren't in need of a roommate?” I asked. I should have known it wouldn't be this easy.  

“No, I am,” he said, “Come on up, and we can discuss when you can move in.”  

“You don't want references?” I asked. Not that I could provide many that were respectable, but I wasn't sure I wanted to room with someone with so flagrant a disregard for his personal safety.  

He laughed outright at that and shook his head. “I trust Ian. And you haven't seen the room yet- you might say no.” He climbed the stairs without waiting for a reply, and I followed him.  

“Second floor is all me,” he said. “First floor is the landlady. She’s pretty easygoing- got enough on her hands with twins to worry about much else.” He unlocked the door and gestured me to step inside. The first thing I saw was a easel, positioned to get the best light from the big window. A drawing of a red wing seemed about to fly off the page. Not dust, then. Charcoal. Broken sticks of it were scattered on the table next to the easel, mixed with stubs of pastels.   

“You're an artist?” I asked.  

“Doesn't pay the bills,” he said, rubbing his hands on his pants, leaving streaks of dust. “But yes. That's what I am. How about you?”  

“I don't know,” I said. It was a more profound question than he probably meant it to be. “I grew up here,” I said, to cover the awkwardness, “but I've been gone a long time.”  

He nodded, and didn't ask anything else.   

“Living room,” he said, gesturing, taking in the easel and the sofa, a record player and stacks of records and books. “Kitchen's through here.” It looked well-used, dishes stacked to drain, a mug next to a half-full pot of coffee.  

“You got a job?” he asked. “Now you're back in your home town?”  

“I have savings,” I said. “I'm good for a few months, but I'll need to find something sooner rather than later. I can pay the first month rent in advance, if that helps.”  

“Why don't you take a look at the room before you decide,” he said, like he was worried it wouldn't be up to scratch. I didn't tell him about some of the far worse places I'd called home.   

“Then lead on,” I said,and Mr McCoy smiled like I was doing him the favour.  

“Bathroom.” He opened the door briefly- “my room”- the door stayed closed. “And this is the spare. My last roommate got married a month ago. I can make do by myself, but I'd rather not.”  

The room was plain, the bed stripped bare, but it was a decent size, with a pine wardrobe and a small desk squeezed under the window.  

There was a framed picture on the wall, a V of geese in flight over the lake, all in blues and greys.  

“One of yours?” I asked.  

“No, I like it,” I said, because I did.   

“Ian sent me someone with taste,” he smiled, and I realised he was teasing me.  

“One last thing,” he said, steering back into the living room. There was more art on the walls here, and the radiator hummed comfortingly. “I work nights. If that's going to disturb you, this might not be a good place for you.”  

I couldn't suppress the laugh “I've worked nights myself. And I'll be attending night school, here. I'll probably still be up when you come home.”  

“Is that a yes to the room?” he asked.  

“It is, if you're happy to have me as a roommate, Mr McCoy,” I said.   

“If we're going to be roommates, you should call me Travie,” he said.   

“William.” I said, “or Bill.”  

“Well, Bill,” Travie said. “When can you move in?”  

***  

The sign caught my eye, propped in the bottom of the store window. "Help Wanted" in neat black letters on cream card.  

It matched the storefront. "Antoff's: Fine Men's Fashions since 1918" in the same black letters on fresh cream paint. The bell that rang as I pushed the door open sounded like money.  

"Can I help you, sir?" The man behind the counter seemed to shimmer into place out of the stacked shirts and woollens. He was black and cream too, dark brylcreamed hair and hornrimmed glasses, and fine linen shirt.  

"Your sign said that you needed _my_ help." I said.  

"Oh?"   

"I'm looking for work, I know clothes, I'm reliable, and I'm charming."  

I was thankful that I'd worn the best suit I owned to add respectability for my new landlord. Anything that impressed at the Grapevine would convince him I knew my stuff.  

"Is that so?" the bell rang again and a couple stepped though the door.  

"Perhaps," he said, leaning over the counter "You'd care to give me a demonstration?"  

"My pleasure,” I said, and went over to introduce myself.  

Thirty minutes later and Mr and Mrs Parker had a suit for their beloved daughter's wedding, a silk pocket square for their youngest grandson- "he's to be ring bearer, you see-" and a new sweater for Mr Parker, just in case -"getting colder now, Arthur and you know how your chest gets-" and I, it seemed, had a new job.  

"Can you started tomorrow?" the owner asked, as we watched Mr and Mrs Parker disappear down the street, juggling parcels.  

"Yes," I said. "William Beckett, by the way." I held out my hand.  

He shook it. "My grandfather would have insisted on  Mr Antoff. But he's gone, and it's just me, trying to keep this place going. Jack is fine, if there's no customers around."  

"Jack," I repeated.  

"Have you done this before?" Jack asked, copying my name down in a ledger.   

"Not in so many words but I know fashion, and I know people," I said. I carefully omitted the fact that talking people _into_ clothes was child's play, once you were used to talking them out of them.   

***  

Moving didn't take long. I'd barely unpacked in the hotel, and it was the work of an hour to put together my clothes, the paperbacks Spencer had given me, my shoes. Three boxes sat in the trunk of the car, another two joined them on the backseat, my suitcases squashed alongside, and the bag with my good suit and dress shirt safely hanging off a hook inside the passenger door. The soft whisper of silk and wool was a good as armour, and I still didn't know how much of that I'd need.  

I collected my key from the harried- looking landlady. She offered me a small smile and went to rescue something that sounded expensive from a pair of straw-headed girls .  

I hung my clothes in the closet, the wire hangers rattling along the rail as it filled. Sweaters went into the chest at the foot of the bed and I made two double stacks of books against the desk. Aside from those I had no knick-knacks. No mementos. I lined my shoes up under the desk and hung Patrick's hat off the beg on the back of the door. The geese still flew on, over the lake, the colours muted in the hazy afternoon light.   

I was stretched out on the unmade bed, contemplating where the sheets might be, when I heard the front door click open.  

“Bill?” Travis called, sounding half uncertain.  

“I'm here,” I said, and went out to meet my new roommate.  

He set down the brown paper parcel he was carrying, and shook my hand. No charcoal this time. “Sorry I wasn't here to help you carry your things in,” he said.   

“I didn't have much,” I said, “though I may need to look for a bookcase. They're all in piles at the moment.”  

“It's records with me,” he said, as though I could have missed the piles stacked around the room.   

“Oh,” I remembered. “I was looking for sheets. I didn't bring any with me, and I don't know the closest place to buy them.”  

“Two stops away on the El,” Travis said. “But I saved you the journey.” He passed me the parcel. I tore the paper to see blue sheets, the same colours as the painting on my bedroom wall.  

“I thought you might not have bought much in the way of linens,” he said.   

“Thank you.” I was touched. It was another unlooked-for small kindness, like Ian's note, and I wasn't sure how to to react. “I came with a trunk of books, two suitcases of clothes, and not much else. I might have my own coffee mug.”  

“Got the important things covered then,” Travis said.  

“I'll pay you back,” I said, folding the brown paper into a square.  

He waved it off “I'll add it to this month’s rent,” he said, with a smile.   

**  

My feet were heavy and aching by the time I stepped off the El and made my slow way home. A whole day at work, followed by classes, had me ready for bed. I was not yet accustomed to early rising.   

The apartment was warm and dimly lit. I could hear jazz floating out into the passage. Miles Davis, sounding like a cool drink on a hot day. My stomach growled, reminding me that I'd not had time to eat. I wasn't sure if there was anything _to_ eat. Moving and starting at Antoff's hadn't left me much time for grocery shopping. It wouldn't be the first time I'd gone to bed hungry.  

“Bill!” Travis was sitting on the sofa, feet up on a foot stall and a plate resting on his lap.  

“Travis,” I said, surprised by the warmth of the greeting. “I was afraid I'd disturb you. I'm later than I thought.”  

“Night classes?” Travis asked. I nodded and my stomach growled again, loud enough for Travis to hear.   

“Hungry?” He raised an eyebrow.  

“I didn't have time to eat,” I said.“Just a snack at midday, and then by the time class finished, I just wanted to get home.” I hid a yawn behind my hand, and slowly unbuttoned my coat.  

“Luckily I made enough for two,” Travis said. “In the kitchen, help yourself.”  

“I couldn't-” I said, but my stomach gurgled again, showing up the lie. Travis made a shooing motion and I went to investigate.   

There was a pot of rice and another of meat sauce on the stove, both still steaming hot. I could smell tomatoes and garlic, rising from the saucepan, as I heaped my plate. I got a glass of water and carried both out, careful not to spill anything on the way to my room.  

“Come sit in here and eat,” Travis called, “You don't have to be invisible.”  

“I didn't want to be in your way,” I said, too tired to work out the rules of this cohabitation. Gabriel had given me free run of the penthouse as part of our arrangement, Ryan and Pete had treated me like a brother. This situation had no narrative, no rules I could guess, and I worried more than I liked about breaking them.  

I sat and put my glass down on the side table. Travis waved his fork at me encouragingly. “It'll get cold,” he said, “and you look like you could use the meal.”  

I dug in. It was delicious.   

“It's good,” I said, chasing down grains of rice with my fork. “Thank you. You didn't have to go to the trouble.”  

“You can't really make bolognaise for one, it's no trouble,” Travis said, finishing his plate.   

“It's really good,” I said again. I'd grown too used to boarding house food.  

“That's what they pay me for,” Travis said. He must have read my lack of understanding in my face, because he continued. “I never did tell you- I cook. That's what pays the bills and keeps me in records and charcoal.” He licked sauce off his thumb and set the empty plate down.   

“You're a chef,” I said.   

“Nothing that fancy,” he said. “I work the kitchen down at the Starlight Diner. Cheap, hot and tasty, that's what I aim for.”  

“That works for all kinds of businesses,” I said, before I could stop myself. The pause stretched out, and I bit my tongue, certain I'd crossed some undefined line. Then Travie laughed, a delighted giggle.  

“So true,” he said, “But food's the only thing on offer at the diner.”  

“If it's all this good, that's more than enough,” I said. “Thank you, again, for dinner.”  

“Do the dishes and we'll call it even,” he said.  

**   

The winter blew in all at once with thick blankets of lake snow and surgical winds that cut through clothes like the sharpest scalpel. Antoffs did a roaring trade in sweater vests and overcoats and Jack gave me part of one week's wages in the form of sheepskin gloves that finally meant I didn't have to wait for my fingers to thaw before opening the store.  

I learned that the heat in the apartment was temperamental and noisy. The clank of the pipes soon became my morning alarm clock and I dressed huddled next to the radiator on cold mornings.   

Travis seemed to think we needed extra internal insulation and cooked meat pies, casseroles with fluffy biscuits, chili and yellow cornbread, comforting and warm against the bite of winter. Dinner, apparently, was a regular, non-negotiable appointment.  

"You don't have to do this," I said, the first time he urged a second helping of mashed potato on me. "I can make my own food, I promise."  

"I know," Travis said. "But you don't have to. We both need to eat. We can eat together. I like not eating alone, and you need feeding up."  

"I dispute the second part of that," I said, scooping up the last of my pot roast. "But I like the first. I don't like eating alone either."  

It had been longer than i cared to remember that I'd had a regular dining partner who wasn't paying for the privilege.   

"Then we have a deal. You can keep doing the dishes instead."  

"That, I can manage," I said, "though I should warn you I break more than my share of plates."  

"Not a bus boy in a previous life, then," he said. He still hadn't worked out my former job and I was happy to keep it that way.  

"Not even close, but keep guessing," I said. I shivered and pulled the thick afghan from the back of the sofa more firmly around me, tucking my feet up under me to keep them warm.  

Travis looked a little worried.  

"You can turn the heat up if you're that cold," he said. He pulled his own blanket over his knees.   

"I'll get used to it," I said. "My bloods just grown too thin. "  

I was kept too busy to miss the desert too much- classes and work combining to keep me on the hop. I plied my books on the rickety desk until Travis helped me carry a bookcase up the two flights of stairs. The light in my room was too dim for writing, so I took Travis up on his offer and moved my legal pad and notebooks into the living room, sitting under the tall lamp and studying as the nights drew in early.   

I made coffee in the mornings and left it warming; coming home I'd find sandwiches in the fridge, or soup to be reheated, if Travis was going to be late. It was a quiet, gentle existence, but one I was getting used to. One I liked more than I'd ever thought to.  

***  

Travis found me with my feet up on the footstool, blowing in with the scent of frying onions and snow, flakes melting on his eyelashes and the collar of his leather jacket.  

“Shouldn't you be in bed?” he asked. He was far from the first to say that to me, an invitation, or an order. This sounded like friendly concern.  

“I have to finish this,” I said, waving my pen at him.   

Travis rubbed his eyes like a tired child. It was disarmingly sweet.  

“Rough night?” I asked.  

“Two waiters down, and then a big rush after that new show at the Atlantic let out. Don't know if I'm coming or going.”  

“Did you eat?” I asked, setting the pad aside.  

Travis's smile was tired, but there. “Who feeds who here? And I ate before I came home. I'm going to hit the hay.”  

I got up to lift the needle from the record so that it wouldn't disturb his sleep.  

“No, leave it on,” Travis said “It's not going to keep me awake. If you like Dizzy, there's some Bird Parker somewhere in-” he waved an arm “that pile.”  

“You could sort them out in to order,” I said, eyeing the tottering pile. I'd picked the record at the top because I was afraid the whole stack would come crashing down.  

“When would I have the time?” he asked, around a yawn. “Goodnight Bill.”  

“Goodnight,” I said.  

**  

I woke to the weak winter sun streaming in between the cracks in the drapes. My bed was warm with extra blankets, and my Sunday stretched out before me. I could hear music, faint and unrecognisable, drifting in from the living room, along with the clatter of pans. I was tempted to burrow back down into the bed like a hibernating animal, but today was only a day of rest in theory. I had work to do, and my books looked at me reproachfully from the desk. I wrapped myself up in my robe, shuffled into my slippers, and went to persuade my brain to wake up.  

The music got louder as I opened the door, and I recognised it as the same record from the night before. Travis poked his head out of the kitchen, and I woke all the way up with a jolt.  

“You're dressed,” I said, momentarily forgetting proper behaviour in the face of shined shoes, immaculately pressed pants, and a blindingly white shirt. His frame suited formalwear, as I knew mine did, but I'd only ever seen him in slacks and sweaters. In the well cut suit and perfectly knotted tie he was devastating. He gave me the same gentle, teasing smile he used to encourage me to take seconds.  

“Can't go to church in the nude,” he said, like I should know better.  

“Church?” I asked, leaving the question of nudity aside for my own peace of mind.  

“It _is_ Sunday,” he said. “I was finishing up breakfast before the service.”  

“I didn't think,” I said. Gabriel's own observances had been patchy at best, and not, of course, on a Sunday. For Brendon, it was something to be fought against. The idea of a solid, church going life had never appealed. I'd half-forgotten it was something normal folk did.  

“It's church,” Travis said. He slid his arms into his jacket and adjusted his pocket square in the mirror. “If I miss it, I'll get into no end of trouble.”  

I'd had no idea he was so devout.   

“Not from the man upstairs,” he said, seeing my confusion. “From my mother.”  

I laughed. “Oh, well, that's more understandable.” I said. “Go make you observances. This sinner is going to have a long breakfast.”  

“I'll be sure to include you in my prayers,” he teased, and picked up his hat, saluting me with one gloved hand.  

There was coffee still left in the pot, and I put oatmeal on to cook, thick, stick-to-your-ribs stuff to ward off the cold. I dressed and curled up in the armchair with the book of sonnets we were covering in class, notepad at the ready. Sarah Vaughn played on, and I'd played the record twice through by the time Travis got home, more snow on the brim of his hat and a covered dish in his hands.  

"Eternal damnation avoided for another week,” he greeted me cheerily.  

"Good to know," I said. "What's in the dish?" I imagined him carrying it carefully on the EL, trying not to jostle it, or the people around him.   

"Irish stew," Travis lifted the lid so I could see the broth and chunks of carrot. "Mom still thinks I can't feed myself properly."  

"You feed people as a job," I said.  

"You know mothers." Travis's smile was rueful and fond all at once.  

"Not really. I left mine behind a long time ago."  

I could see he wanted to ask, but was too polite. Even if he had asked, I'm not sure if I'd have told him. Not yet.  

"I might have mentioned you, too,” he said. "That you're thin as a rake. Mom's big into feeding people up."  

"I'm no skinnier than you," I protested, not entirely fairly. There was a steady solidity about Travis, in the breadth of his shoulders and sureness of his hands.  

"Hey, you want to miss out on Mom's best be my guest," he said, and carried the pot through into the kitchen.  

I held out for ten minutes before the scent of warming mutton and onions tempted me from my chair. Travis had flour on his hands and a smudge on his cheek.   

"Dumplings," he said, dropping the last one into the simmering broth and covering the pot. "Be about twenty minutes."  

"Just time for me to finish my essay,” I said.   

**  

"Any plans for this afternoon?" Travis asked, mopping his bowl with a hunk of bread. "Or are you still writing that essay?"  

"All done," I said. My belly was full of stew, and I felt warm and content despite the chill outside. "I don't know if it's going to get a good grade though. Feel a little too old to be going back to school."  

I looked at the remaining stew in the pot and, at Travis's encouraging nod, took second helpings.  

"Why are you, if you don't mind me asking?"   

I paused, spoon dipping into the stew, and wondered how to answer.  

"I'm sorry," Travis said, "of course, it's not my business. You don't need to answer."  

"No," I said, "I don't mind you asking. I just don't know where to start. It's a long story, though I guess I do owe you for lunch."  

"No," Travis shook his head, "that's not how it works. I'm just curious. You said you're from Chicago. I'm just wondering what makes a man come back."  

"Unfinished business," I said. "I'd never expected to come back. I lived in Las Vegas, did I tell you?"   

Travis shook his head.   

"I had friends there. Dear friends. People I loved. And the city- it's easy to be anything you want there. Or anything other people want you to be."  

Travis raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything.  

"And I'm good at that. Or I was."  

"What happened to your friends?" Travis asked "You said, _had_."  

"Oh," I said, realising how that sounded. "They are all fine. One followed his sweetheart out to LA few years ago. Others moved out to the coast. Ryan has a place, right on the beach."  

"You didn't want to follow them?"   

"I thought about it. But I thought I'd try someplace that didn't raise deception to an art form. I never did finish school here before I-"  

"Ran away from home." Travis finished for me.  

"Something like that." I said. "So in the end, I decided to come back home. Try and settle into a place I thought I'd never see again."  

"Are you regretting it?" Travis asked.  

"Ask me again after three months of winter." I said, "I'll be missing the desert then, no doubt."  

"No doubt," Travis smiled at me.   

"So to answer your original question,” I said, standing and stacking the empty bowls to take into the kitchen. "My only plans this afternoon are another cup of tea, and ice hockey on the radio."  

Travis's frown said it all.  

"Not a fan?" I asked.  

"Don't know much about it," he said.   

"I used to watch it with- with my dad,” I said. The memories tugged at the edge of my mind, the shush of skates and the bite of ice in the air. "Stick with me and I'll tell you everything you need to know."   

**  

Talking to Travis had got me thinking, so on my next Tuesday off I hopped the EL to a small churchyard I barely remembered, overpriced carnations in my chilled hands. It took a while searching, but eventually I found it, grass and moss encroaching on the stone. I stooped to brush away fallen leaves so that I could read my father's name and the span of dates. I remembered standing there on his birthday and the anniversary of his death, my hand clutched tight in my mother's.  

I wasn't sure what to say, so I just laid the flowers on the grave and stood quietly for a few minutes as the trees rustled overhead.  

"Excuse me dear," a voice behind me interrupted my reverie. A woman with curling white hair and a lined face motioned me to move out of her way. I stepped aside so she could pass, her arms full of greenery.  

"No one's been to see him for years," she said, nodding at my father's grave. "Sad to see one go that young. Prime of life. You wonder what he left behind."  

"Me," I said, the words sticking in my throat. "He left me."  

She bent to put her arrangement down on the neighbouring grave and then straightened up, patting my arm.  

"You came to visit him though, he'd like that, I'm sure."  

I didn't need the reassurance, but the words were kind.  

"Now my Herb here." she nodded to the grave, it's cherub headstone. "50 years we were married, and I visit him every week. I'd gotten into the habit of talking to him and it's a hard one to break."  

"Every week?" I asked.  

"Yes, but in all the time, I've never seen anyone at that grave."  

"I'm new in town," I said.  

"Well, maybe I'll see you again." she said.  

"Maybe." I touched my hat to her and picked my way back to the street, her voice as she recounted her week floating out behind me.  

I wasn't ready to go back to the empty apartment, so I stopped off at Ian's place. I was caught up on my reading enough that an afternoon off wouldn't hurt. It was quiet, a mid-afternoon lull hanging over the bar. Sean slid a whiskey across to me without asking what I wanted.  

"You remembered?" I asked, taking a sip.  

"I don't forget many faces like yours," he said with an unmistakable grin. His eyes were still that bright, bright blue, full of all kinds of suggestions.  
 

"Is that so?" I said, teeth catching on the rim of the glass. He smiled again, inviting, and I wasn't sure how to react. Ian spared me the trouble by slouching on the bar next to me and leaning over to grab a dishtowel.  

"Bill," he said, "How's things?"  

"Good," I said. "I'm settling in. Got a job, and I started school too."  

"Keeping busy, I see," Ian said. He raised his eyebrows at the barkeep. "Sean, while we're quiet, can you go help set up for tonight? I'll take over here."  

"Sure," he nodded "Nice to see you again Bill. Don't be a stranger."  

"I don't intend to be," I said, because it was a good bar, even if I didn't want what he was offering. Thinking about why i didn't want it could wait for another day. Ian slipped behind the bar and started drying the last of the shot glasses.   

"So things are good?" he said.  

"Checking up on me?" I asked.   

"Any friend of Patrick's...." He looked at me until I answered the question.  

"Things are good. Like I said, I've got a job at Antoff's, the night classes are interesting."  

"You and Travis making a go of it?" Ian stacked the glasses. It was an odd choice of words but I tried not to read too much into it.   

"He keeps trying to feed me, I think I got the better end of the bargain."   

Ian grinned "Yeah, he does that."   

I spent an hour shooting the breeze with Ian and finishing the bowl of peanuts in front of me, sweeping the shells into a neat pile.  

"You sticking around for the music?" Ian asked when he'd finished off the brief after work rush and come back to my stool. "I'll put Sean back on the bar, as I'm playing with the band." He said it like an invitation.  

"I- don’t-" I stuttered not sure whether I wanted to lie. What I would be lying about.  

“Hey." Ian leaned over the bar to speak into my ear. "It's ok. I know Patrick, don't i?"  

"That wasn't what I was concerned about." I said.  

"Hmm" Ian said. "Well, other attractions aside, you have to hear Janey. She's singing tonight. Go home and collect Travie, I haven't seen him in a while."  

"He's working,” I said.  

"Poor excuse." Ian didn't push it further.  

"I will come see you play," I said, ”but maybe not tonight.”  

"Open invitation.” Ian spread his hands to demonstrate.  

"I'll take you up on that.” I slid off my stool and picked up my hat. Ian waved his dishcloth at me to send me on my way  

***  

Travie bought home a new stack of records that night, with a label I didn't recognise.  

"Friend of mine’s." he said, when  I asked. "He's tired of being worked over by the record company, so he started his own. Think he's onto something with this girl though."  

Travie slid the record across to me. The cover was a painting of a woman, and I recognised Travis's style in the lines of her throat and the smoky curl of her hair.  

"Janey," I said, reading the title. "She's singing at Ian's place tonight. He invited us."  

“Damn," Travie stretched his legs out and groaned. "I'd go, but I'm beat."  

"Maybe we could go next time?" I asked tentatively. "I've missed live music."  

"Oh yeah?" Travie looked pleased.   

"The friends I left behind?" I said "A lot of them were musicians, or should have been."  

"We always had music around growing up," Travis said. "Any spare cash went on it. The day my dad finally saved enough to buy my mum a piano was the happiest I've ever seen her. My sister and I took piano lessons."  

"You can play piano?" I asked. I couldn't help but notice he had the hands for it.  

“Nah,” he shook his head, "it didn't stick with me. But my sister can't cook worth a damn."  

I chuckled. "In Vegas, seems like you can't go outside without tripping over musicians. In every casino, gambling den, any bar with a stage. Everyone's trying to make it."  

"You didn't want to try?" Travis slid the record out of its paper sleeve.  

"Not as a musician," I said, forgetting to be cautious. "I have a different set of skills. Though those are useful in casinos too."  

Travis raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. Let him think I waited tables. It was slightly more respectable than the alternative to a good church-going boy.  

"One day maybe I'll get the whole story," he said. He put the record on the turntable.  

"I'm sorry," I said, "I'm not intentionally trying to be mysterious."  

"Doesn't have to be the whole story at once," Travis said, and put the needle down.  

***  

I was still seeing neckties behind my eyes as I climbed the last few steps to the apartment. Stocktaking at Antoffs had taken longer than either of us had expected. We'd unearthed caches of sweaters and pants so old they would have been out of fashion when Roosevelt was in the White House. The _first_ Roosevelt. Still, it was worth it for the bonus Jack had slipped into my paypacket. All i wanted to do was sleep until I could no longer hear the rustle of cotton shirts and my fingers stopped twitching from folding and unfolding hundreds of pairs of socks.  

I had my hat off and was half out of my coat when Travis came out of the sitting room "No, put that back on," he said and handed me my hat back. "No time to waste, you're late." He made an encouraging shooing motion.  

"Am I disturbing something?" I asked. It was the only reason I could think of that would make my leaving a matter of such urgency. Travis was good company, kind and handsome and charming, good through and through. I was a little surprised he wasn't drowning in callers. It was perfectly understandable, really.  No reason that it should make me feel even more weary.  

"No," Travis looked confused. "I explained it all in the note. You didn't get it?"  

"I've been counting socks," I said, hat still in hand. "The only thing I've read all afternoon is sizing charts and laundry instructions."  

Travis shook his head. "That's the last time I trust Holly to deliver anything. She probably spent that whole tip on sweets straight away. Janey's back at Ian's place and this time he won't take no for an answer. We're going to go watch her sing."  

He buttoned his coat and put on his own hat, tilting it at a jaunty angle. "We need to leave now though or we'll miss half the show."  

"I was going to sleep," I said, seeing my quiet night vanish before my eyes. "And eat something."  

"Second one's covered." Travis said and he handed me a sandwich, wrapped in wax paper. "Come on, you can eat and walk."  

I know when to pick my battles, so I took the sandwich, and put my hat back on.   

**  

"And then he said-'I'm sorry, I thought I'd stepped on you!'" Ian finished. Travis joined in with Ian's laugh, the sound echoing in the half empty bar.   

"I can't help that you're pint-sized," he said, knocking his fist against Ian's shoulder. "It's a long way down to see you."  

"So after that was cleared up we got to be good friends," Ian said. "Though he wasn't really cut out for life as a bartender."  

"I can't imagine that either," I said. "not that I know much about it."  

"Not something you tried?" Travis asked.  

I shook my head.  

"Guess I can knock that one off the list," Travis sighed in exaggerated disappointment.  

Sean swung by our table to collect the empty glasses. I passed mine up and he made sure to brush his fingers over the back of my hand.  

"Thank you," he said. "Nice of you to make my job easier." Even in the dim light his eyes were inviting.  

"I like to help." I said, smiling. The flirtation a habit even now.  

"You can help all you like," he said. "I'm here late, if you want to help tidy up."  

"I only pay one of you for that," Ian said mildly. Travis didn't say anything at all.  

"Guess I'll do it all by myself then." Sean smiled. He braced his hand on the back of my chair to lean over the table for Ian's glass. His fingers brushed the back of my neck. Smartly done. A little reckless.   

I could go home with him. I knew why I wouldn't. I sat forward to break the contact and didn't watch him walk away.   

"Not a barkeep," I said, focusing on Travis. "Keep guessing."  

Ian looked quizzical. "Bill's all mysterious," Travis explained. "Some big secret about how he paid his way in Vegas."  

"It's not," I said. I had no idea if Ian knew, but I thought it unlikely. Patrick's letter hadn't mentioned it, and both he, and Pete, wanted me to have the option of a fresh start. "I'd tell you, but you seem to be having too much fun guessing."  

"Hmmm," Ian cocked his head, looking at me. "Professional lion tamer."  

"Trapeze artist," Travis countered.  

"Not with my head for heights." I said.  

"Race car driver," Ian suggested.  

"You clearly haven't seen him drive.” Travis shook his head.  

"What, you don't think I'd _win_?" I asked, stung.  

"I don't think you'd _survive_ ,” Travis countered. "Not with the way you take corners."  

"I'm hurt," I said.  

"I'd rather you were alive," Travis said softly, all teasing gone. "So I'm glad I was wrong about that one." He touched my wrist to emphasis his point. and it took all the sting away.  

**   

Ian finally kicked us out when it was time to put the bar to bed and we took the El home, huddling close against the wind. I wasn't drunk, as such, but there was a certain fuzziness to my brain that meant driving on frozen streets would be a bad idea. Travis rubbed his hands together and held them against the radiator when we got in. i was too busy looking at his fingers to answer promptly when he spoke, so he nudged his foot against mine to get my attention.  

"Bill, Bill? You want anything else to eat?"  

I considered. "No, but maybe a hot drink?" I squeezed past him into the kitchen. There was a nearly full bottle of milk in the refrigerator, and I knew I'd seen cocoa powder and cinnamon in one of the cupboards.  

Travie followed me in and watched me pour the milk into the pan and set it to heat.  

"Been a while since I had hot cocoa," he said. "I'm more of a coffee drinker.""I know," I said. "Or do you think the coffee fairy leaves you a cup every morning?"  

Travie smiled at me, even softer than usual, blurred with the late night.  

"I never say thank you." he said. "But I like that you look out for me."  

"You feed me," I said, "turnabout's fair play. I can make you coffee instead but I've been told my cocoa is _exceptional_."   

"Your cocoa come with a letter of recommendation?" Travis passed me the sugar bowl, unasked.  

"We had a cold spell a few years ago," I said. The milk started to simmer and foam up and I took it off the heat. "Not cold to people like Pete and me, but Spencer, Ryan? They grew up in the desert. Ryan takes the cold as a personal insult. They holed up with more blankets than I've ever seen in one place and just shivered all day. Cocoa at least stopped Ryan complaining for five minutes." I smiled to myself, remembering Ryan sticking his hand out of his nest of blankets to grab the mug. "Meanwhile Pete and I thought it was pleasantly bracing."   

I whisked cocoa and sugar and cinnamon into the milk and poured carefully, trying not to spill it on the counter. Travie picked up one mug and followed my back into the living room. The afghan on the sofa was warm as he spread it over both of us.   

"Oh yeah?" He said. "Pete used to the cold too?"  

"He's another Chicago boy," I said. "Though he keeps moving further south. LA now, and I don't think he's coming back."  

"Nothing for him to come back for?" Travis asked.   

"More like he found a good reason to stay," I said, and left it at that.   

The steam curled around Travis's face as he sipped his cocoa.  

"Mmm," he said. “ _Exceptional_.” It was gently teasing. "So, you were a star hot cocoa chef?"  

I laughed. "I'm not sure that exists," I said. "Or is any more likely than lion tamer."  

"Safer, at least," he said. He curled both hands around the mug, warming them. "One day I'll guess right."  

I cuddled further under the afghan and sipped my own cup.   

"You really want to know?" I asked. He deserved this, at least. I took a moment to enjoy the closeness, Travis's feet knocked against mine, our shoulders touching. Just in case he didn't want this, afterwards.  

"The more I think about it the more I think it was something dangerous,” he said. "I worry."  

"It wasn't dangerous, at least not at the end,"I said. "The beginning. well. I learned to deal with it. You have to, when you do what I did. I didn't count cards, I didn't wait tables."  

"So just what did you do?" Travis was calmly curious. "At this point, it can't be as bad as what I'm imagining." Travis's foot nudged mine. The playfullness was something I hadn't wanted to risk losing.  "Are you a cat-burgler? Drug runner? Just what could be so bad you won't tell me?"  

"The world's oldest profession," I said. I looked straight ahead, fixing my eyes on the opposite wall. I swallowed. It wasn't shame. I'd never been ashamed. It was fear, that Travis would think differently of me.   

"It was simple choice," I said. "I ran away from home. The money ran out with me. I'm charming. Or, I know how to be. I know how I look. How I looked then. After a few years, it paid very well. Why scrape around to live on bread and water when someone else will buy me lobster?" He didn't say anything, so I continued. "And by 'someone' I mean men. In case you didn't know, women rarely pay for those kind of services. At least, not what I charged. So, that's what I did. No big mystery. No buried treasure. Just a set of transactions."  

I stood up. I still hadn't looked at him. I found I couldn't bear to see what might be on his face. Disappointment? Revulsion? The end of our easy camaraderie? I wanted to run, out of the door, into the snowy streets. Instead I walked into the kitchen without looking behind me. I ran the water until it was hot. I added soap and started to wash the dishes.  

I heard steps behind me and still didn't turn. Travis reached past me and took a wet cup from the rack to dry.  

"Anyone ever tell you you're kind of over-dramatic?" he said.  

I laughed.  

"Frequently," I said, "and, if you'd met my friends you'd appreciate how ironic that is."  

Travis stacked the dry plates. "I'd like that," he said. "That was your big secret? The thing you were so worried about telling me?"  

"Not, worried," I said, the half-truth sticking in my throat. I scrubbed at the baked-on food, the remains of the corned beef hash Travis had made for yesterday's dinner. "I'm not ashamed of what I did. I was more worried about how you'd react. I left that career behind and," I paused, choosing my words carefully. "I didn't want the reminder. I turned over a new leaf and I wasn't sure I wanted that written on it."  

"You thought I wouldn't approve?"   

I'd run out of dishes to focus on. Travis's hand on my elbow made me turn to look at him. "It's not exactly a profession a good church-going boy would approve of."  

Travis smiled at me.  

"Way I see it, you use what God gave you," he said. "And he was _generous_ with you."  

I couldn't help the laugh, relief as much as anything else. "That so?" I asked.  

"You said yourself," he said.”People find you charming."  

I needed to make sure he understood.  

"I'm... this isn't me using my professional skills." I said. "This is all just me."  

"Well, I'm pleased to meet you." Travis put the last glass down and took my soapy hand to shake it. Our fingers slipped and slid together. 

 "You met me months ago," I said.  

"And I'm still pleased. Though I am a little disappointed you're not an international jewel thief."  

"Well, if I _was_ I couldn't tell you...." I teased, and waited for the laugh I knew would come.   

**  

Travie and I had compromised on the radio: loud enough that I could hear the Blackhawks game being called, but low enough that Travie wasn't distracted. Despite my very best efforts he still had little interest in the game. I curled up in the armchair with my ear close enough to the radio so that i didn't miss a play. I was supposed to be working on my latest essay. I was mostly watching Travie.  

He was curled up on the sofa with the tall lamp behind him, trying to get enough light to draw by.There were already smudges and streaks of colour across his face his trousers, and the sofa cushions.It was lucky that neither of us were particularly houseproud. I watched him draw, biting his lip and tilting his head to study the page.  

"You're not actually doing your essay, are you?" he said without looking up.  

"I'm- thinking about doing it,” I said truthfully. "It's just interesting, watching you draw. People being good at things is fascinating."  

"You can't exactly see much from way over there,” Travis said. He looked up and patted the sofa next to him. There was a broad swipe of blue pastel across his forehead. "Come sit over here, you're making me nervous."  

I sat on the very edge of the sofa, to be on the safe side. Travie had said he understood my former career, but I worried that was just lipservice. That we'd lose the playful closeness we'd had. I'd rather be cautious than assume, and face rejection. Except that he patted the cushion again, and looked exasperated.  

"You can barely see any thing from there. Come closer. I promise I don't mind. You won't get in the way."  

I shuffled even closer, hearing the springs creak under me.  

He knocked his shoulder into mine and smiled. "That's better," he said. He picked up the grey pastel. "Now you can watch to your heart's content, though I'm not sure I really repay such close observation."  

I looked at the picture beginning to emerge on the page, felt the way Travie's hand moved sure over the paper, seemingly unconcerned that he was brushing against me more often than not.  

"I disagree," I said, and watched him smile and keep on drawing. I couldn't hear the game any more, but I didn't much mind.  

"That's beautiful," I said. The drawing emerged from smudges of pastel, blue-grey streaks resolving into a frozen pond, a lowering winter sky. Darker smudges became a woman, skating. "You have a gift."  

Travis wiped his face, smearing chalk down one cheek.  

"Part gift, maybe," he said, smiling sweetly. "Mostly hard work, and classes."  

I shuffled closer to look at the drawing in more detail. "Did you go to art school?"   

“Nah." He shook his head and continued drawing, the woman's hair flying out behind her in two black braids, her hat a cheerful red flash against the page. "I had lessons, growing up. Once i could convince my momma that I didn't just want to look at ladies in the altogether." He chuckled.  

"Life drawing," I said,understanding.  

"Turns out, ladies in the altogether weren't really that interesting to me," Travie continues "but the classes stuck. Though I haven't drawn from life in a while. Models are...more than I can afford."  

_Oh_.  

"You could-“ I paused, gathered my courage. Tried to believe that he meant what I thought he meant. I was unsure how he would react. I was painfully sure of why I was offering. "You could draw me. If that would help. If you're out of practice."  

He set the pastel down on the table. It left a little puff of brown dust.  

"You'd do that?" He asked, at last.   

"It's sitting still," I said. "How hard can it be?"  

"Sitting perfectly still. While someone looks at you, takes you apart, captures you," Travis said, slowly. "I could spend hours on the curve of your eyebrow. The bend of your knee."  

"People look at me, all the time," I said. "I'm used to it. But, it was just an offer. A silly one." I stood to leave the cosy den, hide in my room until I could regather my composure. Travis caught the sleeve of my sweater.  

"Wait," he said. "I wasn't saying no. Just that it's cold, for full figure drawing. I wouldn't want you to catch a chill."   

“Goosebumps not quite the thing you look for in a model?” I asked. He hadn't let got of my sweater.  

“I don't think you'd show to your best advantage,” he said. “But when it's warmer...”  

“Offer's open,” I said.     

I should step back. Break the mood.  

Travie shook my sleeve a little and let it go.  

“I'll keep that in mind.” he said.  

**  

The year turned with fresh snowfall and an empty apartment as Travie spent the holidays with his family, including his new niece. He was sightly perturbed, but I reassured him.  

"It's a pleasant change not to have to work," I said.  

"You worked at Christmas?" Travis paused in wrapping his gifts, adrift in a sea of ribbon and tape.   

"My major client doesn't celebrate it," I smiled slightly at the memory. "And it's peak time for all _kinds_ of entertainment. People need the escape, or the distraction. My friends and I tended to wait ’til after new years and have our own celebration."  

"Christmas in casinos?" Travie asked. He turned the stuffed bear around and around attempting to wrap it. He did not have a great deal of success.  

"It was generally worth working it," I said.  

"Good tips?"  

"Best all year," I said. "A months rent in two days."  

"Guilt or generosity?" Travie turned the bear upside down. It didn't make a difference.  

"You don't ask," I said. Travie huffed as the paper creased and fell out of it's folds. "Need an extra hand?" I asked. I slipped off the sofa and sat on the rug next to him, and put my finger on the knot so he could tie it tight.  

“Thanks," he said, and turned the parcel so he could tie the string again. "Last one," he said, and perched it on top of the pile.  

"You missed one," I said, picking up a flat package tied with a blue ribbon and passing it to him.  

"No I didn't." He pushed it back at me. "That one's for you."  

"You didn't have to," I said. The box was light in my hands.  

"I know. I wanted to," Travie smiled at me. "You going to open it?"  

"Wait there," I said. I fetched Travie's gift from my room, and passed it over to him. "My mom always made me wait," I said, "but if you're going to insist...."  

"I do," Travie said, already unknotting the ribbon.   

I unwrapped the paper and opened the flat box. It was a fountain pen, dark green with steel nib and sliver pocket clip. When I tested it on the wrapping paper I found it was already filled, and wrote smoothly, sitting nicely in my hand.  

"You're always scratching away with that old pen," Travie said, like it needed explanation. "And you get ink all over you. The man at the store said the nib was cut especially for left handed writers. It should be nicer for your to use."  

"It's lovely," I said. I signed my name and added a flourish. I'd never thought there would be such a thing as a left handed nib. I'd just grown used to the ink-smudged cuffs and torn paper in cheap notebooks. "I really appreciate it. Thank you, so much." The words sounded awkward and inadequate, so I squeezed his shoulder, let my hand linger. He leaned his head briefly against my hand.  

"And thank _you_ ,” he said, as he peeled back the tissue and saw the bright silk squares. "Bill, these are-"  

"Bought with my discount, before you scold me," I said, because by the look on his face he was about to chide me. "I hope you like them."  

The slippery silk- polka dot, paisley, bright berry red- slithered through his hands as he shook them out.  

"Beautiful," he said "I love the colours. You've a good eye."  

"Almost like it's my job," I said, lightly. "I'm glad you like them." I took the red one from him and folded it just so, and gave myself the indulgence of tucking it into his breast pocket, fluffing out the folds. "There," I said. "Very festive."  

He clasped my hand before I could lower it and squeezed it.  

“Merry Christmas, Bill.”  

“Happy Christmas,” I said, and took longer than I should to let go.  

**  

There was a letter waiting for me when I got home, the white envelope sticking out of the mailslot downstairs. I fumbled it out with my gloved hands. My address on the front was in Ryan's scribble, in two different colours of ink like he'd gotten distracted half way through.  

I switched on the lamp and set the kettle to boil while I changed out of my work clothes. I'd been a whiskey guy in Vegas but here I was drawn more and more to drinks that warmed me for longer than the temporary burn of alcohol. I made my tea and settled on the sofa with Ryan's letter.   

It was a long letter, words tumbling ever each other in their eagerness, full of odd tangents and snippets of prose poems that (I hoped) were fictional rather than thinly veiled allusions to life on the coast. Then again, it wasn't as if we had many secrets from each other.  

_Spencer and Brendon are trying the thing some of the locals do._ Ryan wrote. _Riding on boards as waves come in. They fall in more often than not, but i will admit that seeing them all wet is a pretty sight. Spencer's hair is really due a cut and he's always pushing it out of his eyes. Remember when you tried to cut it for him? Only thing I've ever known you be bad at_.  

I laughed at the memory. Spencer's hair had looked decidedly ragged. It hadn't been one of my finer moments, but Spencer's new boss had been making noises about appropriate hair cuts for accountants. Clearly Santa Monica was more relaxed. I tucked my feet up under me to keep them warm and kept on reading.   

_They keep trying to persuade me to try it,_ Ryan continued. _But I'd rather sit on the beach and enjoy the view. And write, of course.You may see my name in print one of these days! The latest publisher I sent my manuscript to didn't send it right back. Patrick said the mystery was too convoluted, but he's a PI, not an author. You have to add some poetry to these things._

_B has a big show at the end of the month. If you hadn't run away to the barren winter wasteland, you could come see him. He makes my songs sound brand new, every single time._   

The letter closed with a water smudged hello from Brendon, and a neater postscript from Spencer, asking for more details about _that Travis guy you're sweet on_ I’d say they had the wrong idea, but it was more like they had the right one.  

I was on my third cup of tea, sleepy with work and study, when Travis called out "hello" and hung his hat on the peg.  

"You're home early,” I said, jolted from my reread of Ryan's letter. They were always so stuffed with anecdote I never absorbed it all on the first try.  

"You counting on the empty house? Planning a party?" Travis teased. He leaned in the doorframe, shoes dangling from one hand.  

"Oh sure," I gestured to the empty apartment. "They all just stepped out."  

He lined his shoes up neatly and went to warm his hands on the radiator. I could hear the cold February wind howling outside, and was glad of my cosy nest on the sofa.  

"It's not that much earlier than usual," he said. I looked at the clock, surprised at the hour. I'd gotten lost in Ryan's letter, his sketches of a new life.  

"So I see," I said. "I guess I was distracted."  

"Working hard?" Travie called from the kitchen. I heard the fridge open and close and the clink of a coffee spoon. He carried his own mug in and sat next to me on the sofa. He stole a corner of my afghan for his knees.  

"Distracting letter." I waved it at him.   

"Not bad news, I hope." he said.  

"Oh no, quite the opposite. Ryan has a way with words. I got lost in his stories and working out what to write back to convince him I haven't lost my mind."  

Travie turned his head to look at me and tapped my forehead with one finger.  

"You don't seem to be lacking sense," he said.  

"Ryan took two pages detailing how warm and sunny it is in California," I said. "He takes my decision to move back here as evidence of an unsound mind. He grew up-"  

“In the desert, I remember," Travis said. "But you moved back home. Surely he can understand that?"  

"I'm not sure that I did," I said. My cup was empty but still warm so I held it in both hands. "I don't know whether this counts as home, it's been so long."  

"You were born here," Travie said, like he was clarifying something. The steam made a pale wreath around his face as he drank his coffee.  

"I was, but it takes more than that to make a home. Family. Roots. Good memories. I don't have much of any of those here."   

"You don't talk much about your parents,” Travis said, softly. "I'm sorry. Losing them is tough. I don't know what I'd do if that happened to me so young."   

He was so sympathetic, so endlessly kind. I've never liked spilling the whole story, and most of the people who knew were a country away. But Travie's closeness, the dim pool of lamplight, invited confidence. Being back in this city, memories pricked like needles at the oddest time. Maybe telling it would lesson the sting.  

"My mom's alive," I said, past the lump in my throat. "She moved out of state after I did."  

"And your daddy?" Travis prompted. He set his empty cup on the floor and shuffled closer to me on the sofa.  

"He died- a long time ago”  

Travis frowned. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed."  

"It's not your fault," I said. "Like you said, I don't talk about my family. You couldn't have known."  

"You can tell me to butt out-" Travis said, like he knew I wouldn't.  

"It's a long story," I said.   

"You don't have to tell it," Travis scooted closer on the sofa.   

"No," I said. "But I think I want to.” The trees outside cast shadows on the wall. Travis hadn't turned on all the lamps. It was easier, in the half dark. “I was seven when my father died," I said, eventually.  

"I'm sorry," he said, "that's tough."  

"My mom was great," I said. "She worked hard, kept going. She went back to teaching school, and she took in lodgers. Mostly kids going to university who liked that she looked after them. She used to scold me when she found me reading their books.  

"Did you _understand_ them?" Travis asked.  

"I mostly looked at the pictures," I said. "One year we had a lodger who was studying birds. She had the Audubon book, and would let me spend hours looking at the drawings. I missed my dad, but I was a kid. Eventually the memories fade. "  

"You liked the picture, that first day," Travis said. "My drawing of the geese."  

"I like birds," I said. "They're free. they can fly away."  

I remembered the vivid colours in Phil's book. How happy I'd been when she'd given it to me at the end of her studies. "She gave me the book, but I left it behind. I left everything."  

"What happened?" Travis asked. It was still chilly and i could feel the heat coming off him. I fought the urge to shift closer.  

"When i was 14 my mother remarried." I said. I took a breath and carried on "He was fine at first. At least, to her. I like to think that if he'd ever raised a finger to her, I'd have done it sooner." I kept my voice steady. It was so long ago, it felt like I was talking about someone else. Pete was the last person I'd told this story to, and he'd kept the drinks coming as the whiskey loosened my tongue. I sipped my tea instead, my throat suddenly dry.  

"He knock you about?" Travis spared me saying it.   

I nodded. "Knocked me about. Took a strap to me a couple times. Yelled, all the time. I got used to hiding the bruises. At first because mom seemed happy. And then, because she was scared. Over two years I got my fingers broken, couple of cracked ribs. My wrist. It was always my fault."  

"It _wasn't_." Travis's voice was urgent. his hand, large and warm, closed over mine.  

"I know," I said. He squeezed my fingers. "I know that now. One day, he was yelling at me because my mom wasn't home when he expected. It was apparently my fault she'd gone to visit her sister. I think she was thinking of leaving. I hope she was. He came at me. I shoved him. He fell, hit his head, didn't get up. In that moment, I thought I'd killed him. I _wanted_ to have killed him. There was so much blood. My mom got home then. She told me to go. Took all the money out of her housekeeping and gave it to me, and shut the door in my face."  

"That's cold." Travis's palm was sweaty against mine but he didn't let go.  

"No," I said, "I think she did it to protect me. If he was dead, I was better out of there. If he wasn't, the further away I could get, the safer I'd be. I ran. I ran for a good long time and eventually I ran all the way to Las Vegas. In my heart I'd killed him, and I couldn't be sorry about that."  

Travis's hand was still clasped in mine. Our fingers twined.  

"Had you?" he asked, eventually.  

"I thought I had." I repeated. "I didn't want to check, but eventually, I had a friend with police connections find out. I didn't kill him. But he is dead. Got into a fight with a bus, and lost."  

"And your momma?"  

She's still alive," I said. "She left, while he was in the hospital from the fall. I sent her money, when I could. Sent her a lot, these past few years. I think it helped. She lives in Kansas City now. I haven't seen her, not in years."  

Travis rubbed his thumb over the back of my hand.  

"You didn't see her when you drove up here?"  

"No," I said, taking a breath. I stared out of the window, while I thought. It was so dark outside, falling snow glinting in the street lamps. "I wasn't sure she'd like what I'd grown into." I said eventually.  

Travis squeezed my hand again. "I do," he said. He tugged me closer, until my head rested on his shoulder.  

I'd had my share, more than that, of practised, transactional, intimacy. The rough clasp of Travis's hand in mine, the slow pace of his breathing in the quiet of the room, was a different kind of closeness. Warm, and comforting against the burn of the memory. I didn't know what to say. So I just held tight, and watched the snow fall. 

 

**

 

I'm always honest with myself- even when no one else is. Even so, it took a few weeks to realise I was being courted. To accept that the brush of Travie's hand across the back of my neck or the warmth of his eyes wasn't my own wishful thinking. It had been longer than I could remember that such negotiations hadn't been played out up front.

I'd once told Patrick I preferred the honesty of a cash transaction, the clarity of expectations, and I did. There was security there as well as professional pride. I liked the knowledge of how it would end, though Gabriel had tried to persuade me otherwise.  

This, though. This was new, as gentle and unmarred as the first snow of winter. And, just like the winter chill, I was hesitant to plunge right in.  

“I don't know why I'm telling you this,” I said one night at Ian's place. He wiped the bar down, soaking up sopped beer. He'd taken one look at me and sent Sean to wipe tables and stack chairs, putting the bar to bed for the evening.   

“It's a trick of the trade,” Ian said. He pulled a bottle out and poured an inch of gin, then added tonic. The sharp smell of quinine stung my nose, so I buried it in my whiskey. “Everyone spills their secrets to barkeeps. It's either the alcohol or I have a trusting face.” He gave me an impish grin. “Do you want advice? Or just a listening ear?”  

I rolled the empty glass between my palms. “I don't know.” I admitted. “You've know him a lot longer. You're his friend.”  

“And?”   

“And. I'd like to know if I'm reading things right.” I said.   

“You said that you had to know how to read people to do your job, just like I do,” Ian said.  

“Yes,” I said. “To know what they wanted, even before they did.”  

“Then I'd trust your eyes.” Ian finished his drink,. “Like I trust mine.”  

“What are your eyes telling you?” I asked.  

“That you're talking to the wrong person,” he said. “And that my bartender is going to be very disappointed.  

***  

Ian had made it sound easy. It should have been. If there was something I was well-practiced in, it was hastening exactly this kind of intimacy. But something less mannered, more delicate, that was harder than Ian blithely assumed. I tried to look at it with dispassionate eyes, but I feared that I was seeing what I wanted to, not what was there.  

Or, rather, that my interpretation was at odds with reality. That the brush of fingers, the warmth of his smile, was just friendliness. Travie was expansive, outgoing, always ready with a smile for everyone, from the landlady's twins to the servers at the diner. I wasn't ready to risk shattering the sense of home we had, even as I slept under the sheets he'd bought me, snug under hand me down blankets. I couldn't risk being out in the cold. But I also couldn't risk pretending I was unaffected. So I sat as close as I could on the sofa. Spread the afghan over both of us when the nights got ever colder, pressed back into his fleeting touches and hoped that, maybe, that would be enough.  

**  

I turned the pages in my book slowly, trying to ignore the increasingly exasperated noises from Travie, standing at his easel. He seemed to be using the eraser more than the pencil, and the floor was littered with crumpled balls of paper. He let out another huff and tore of another sheet, tossing it to the floor.  

"Bill?"  

"Yes?" I looked up from the book.  

"Can I borrow your hand?" He peered hopefully over the top of the easel.  

"It's attached to the rest of me. Is that a problem?"  

Travie laughed. It sounded a lot better than the frustrated grunts.  

"No, it's not. Still willing to sit for me? I'm not interrupting?"  

I put my book down and walked over. "I can leave it for a while. What do you need me to do?"  

"I have a commission. A hand, holding a pen. Hands are always the hardest to draw, and I can't very well draw my own."  

I picked up the pen and held it loosely "Like this?"  

His fingers curled around mine, gentle and warm as he corrected my grip. "More like this," he said. "So I can see more of your fingers."  

"Sit here?" I asked, looking around for the stool "Opposite?"  

"No, next to me, so I can look across.” Travie pulled the stool closer.  

I sat down and Travie tutted and rearranged my hand to his liking, guiding it to rest on my knee. "I need you to stay as still as you can for me,” he said. I nodded.  

"You don't have to be silent," Travie chuckled. "I know that can be hard."  

I frowned at him.  

"Oh, wait," Travis said "I got smudges on you." He licked his thumb and rubbed across the back of my hand. I bit the inside of my cheek at the careless intimacy of it. "There," he said. "Now, let’s see." he picked up the charcoal pencil and drew it across the page.  

"What's the commission for?" I asked after ten minutes of quiet drawing.  

"A book cover," Travie held his pencil at an angle against my wrist, like he was measuring. "Poetry, I think. Friend of a friend of Janey's manager. Guess he liked the record sleeve." He reached for the grey pastel. I couldn't see any colour on the page, just shades of smoke and mist. He rubbed his face, leaving streaks behind.  

"A professional referral," I said. My nose itched and i remembered just in time to use my right hand to scratch it.  

"I get them sometimes.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. "Not quitting the day job just yet though."  

"Would you?" I asked, curious.  

He shook his head. "I don't think so. I love my art. But I also love knowing I can pay the bills, save for a rainy day, treat the people I love. I guess I'm old enough now that a steady income appeals.  

"Steady incomes are underrated." I thought, suddenly, of Spencer as I'd first met him, parlaying his skill with numbers to give him a solid base for Ryan's flights of fancy.  

"My musician friends often had day jobs. Or, at least, a handful of get rich quick schemes and the one of world's best poker faces."  

"I thought the house always won," Travie said.  

"In the long run," I said. "Trick is, knowing when to get out." Travis frowned at me and  

I forced my wrist back into position.  

"Is that what you did?" He asked.  

thought about it. It was as good a way of describing it as any.  

"In a manner of speaking," I said. "I wanted to leave ahead of the game. Before I forgot that it was a game, I suppose." I kept my voice even under Travie's assessing gaze.  

I was used to people undressing me, literally and figuratively, but something about the way he looked at me like he could see right through to the bones in my hand, was uncomfortably intense. I sat quietly as Travie scribbled on some scrap paper with some charcoal, then used the fresh point on the sketch. He smudged the lines with his thumb, then sat back and pushed his hand through his hair, thinking. My hand started to cramp. To take my mind off it I said  

If things go right, my pal Ryan might need a book cover, too. He wrote me that he'll send me a proof once he gets it from the publisher."  

"Ryan, is that the detective?" Travis asked.  

"No" I said, "That's Patrick, he's Ian's friend, live in LA. Ryan lives right on the coast." I didn't go any further. I felt there was only so much scandal one man could take and Ryan's arrangement probably crossed the line. "It is detective novel, though."  

"Like Nick and Nora?" Travie sounded interested.  

"Knowing Ryan, something much more surreal,” I said. "You can borrow it, if you like."  

"I'd like that. If you think he wouldn't mind. It can be scary, putting your work out there."  

"Not as scary as having a gun pointed at you or being framed for murder,”I said, absently.  

"Did that really happen to you?" Travie sounded shocked.  

"Not to me, to Ryan," I said, and started to tell the story of Pete and Patrick's first case, skating over some of the more lurid elements. It was a good story, just like the movies, and it kept my mind off the way my whole arm was rapidly falling asleep.  

"There, all done," Travie said at last. I'd moved on from Pete and Patrick's first case together and onto some of the more eccentric stories from Ryan's clubs.  "Thank you."  

"Can I see?" i asked, and stood to peer over his shoulder. The finished picture was a collection of wispy shadows, forming suddenly into a hand- my hand-holding a pen and writing the author's name. The edges were fuzzy, dissolving back into mist, the slash of red ink the only colour on the page.  

"It looks great," I said. I flexed my fingers and winced at the stiffness. The pain went up my wrist and into my arm, pins and needles as I changed position after so long in one place.   

"Are you sore?" Travie asked. I nodded.  

"Not used to sitting still for so long, I guess," I said.   

"May I?" Travie asked, and held out his hands. I put my hand out, resting it on his palm. He rubbed my fingers, stretching each one out in turn, beginning with my thumb, down the the pinky, and back again. He bent each finger joint, pressing my fingertips down into my palm and then rubbed across my knuckles. He pressed his thumb into my palm and massaged gently. I could feel the rub and catch of callouses and healed burns over the sensitive skin of my palm.   

"Life models get used to it," he said softly, eyes still fixed on my hand. His hands moved from mine down to my wrist, smoothing over the skin and pressing into the pulse point. He had to feel how fast my heart was beating. "I'm sorry, I should have remembered and given you a break."   

He'd reached the edge of my shirt cuff, and he slipped one finger underneath the cotton. I couldn't stop my breath hitching at the tickle on the thin skin of my arm.  

"Need more?" he asked. I nodded. His hands were warm, and clever, and I didn't want him to take them off me. "Can I?" He asked, touching the cufflink with one fingertip. I nodded again, unsure of how my voice would come out. He unthreaded the cufflink and set it on the table, and peeled my shirt back, folding it to the elbow. "Can't have you too stiff to finish that essay. Is that better?" He swept his fingers up my arm, light enough to tickle.   

"I am still feeling a little stiff," I said, and wriggled my fingers. He smiled at me like he knew my game. He worked his way up to the crook of my elbow and then returned to my fingers. It was a tease now, the lightest of touches, each one making my skin fizz a little more. I couldn't stop my breath catching.  

"Better?" He asked again. He held my hand in both of his, thumbs sweeping across my palm.  

"Much better," I said. I felt languid, like we'd been engaged in something much more carnal.  

"You have pretty hands," Travie said softly. "thanks for letting me put them in a picture."  

"Any time," I said, just as softly.   

"I may take you up on that," Travie said. He kissed my palm, right in the centre, and folded my fingers over it as though to keep the kiss safe.  

My breath caught. Travie winked at me, and got up to move the easel. I leaned my cheek on my hand, and considered the possibilities that had suddenly, wonderfully, opened up.  

***  

"I picked up your mail" I said, talking to Travie before I'd even gotten the door all the way open. "I think it's-" I trailed off, because of the two people sitting in the living room, neither were Travie. "A check." I finished, feeling foolish and not a little awkward. I knew I was wet, bedraggled from the freezing lake sleet. Spring was still a cruel tease rather than reality. I'd been planning on a hot bath and clean clothes and was in no way dressed for company. Not least the elegant older couple perched on the sofa. The woman, hair pulled into a bun beneath her hat, had Travie's nose. The gentleman with the same jaw, the same eyes. It could only be his parents.  

"My apologies," I said, wiping my hand ineffectually on my damp pants, “I hadn't known Travis was expecting company." I held my hand out. “William Beckett. Am I correct in thinking I have the pleasure of meeting Mr and Mrs McCoy?"  

"Robert McCoy," the man said, standing to shake my hand. I could see where Travie got his sense of style as well as his height.   

“Dorothy." she shook my hand in turn, "And unless my son is in a habit of giving his house key to young men who need a square meal, you don't really need an introduction.”  

“Mother." Travie came to rescue me, tying his tie as he came out of his bedroom. "Would you treat all my friends like that?"  

"Rest assured, Mrs McCoy," I said, "Travis does his level best to feed me. I insist I fed myself for years but somehow there's always leftovers that I _must_ finish up."   

She smiled, a small lift to the corner of her mouth, but I counted it a success. I handed Travie his letter and he put it to one side. He was dressed up too, freshly shined shoes, his Sunday suit and, I was pleased to see, one of the silk squares I'd given him fluffed out in his breast pocket.   

"I see I'm alone for the evening," I said, "Special occasion?"  

"My sister's birthday," Travis nodded. "We're all meeting for dinner."  

"It's filthy wet out there," I said, keenly aware I was still dripping. "You're all dressed so nicely. Mrs McCoy, your hat will be ruined." It was a fashionable little pillbox with a spotted net. It matched Mr McCoy's socks and tie. They were a stylish group. Ryan would have approved.  

"Unless you have some way of stopping the weather, we'll have to risk it," Travis said. He slid his arms into his coat.   

"Are you sure?" Travis asked. He didn't say anything in front of his parents, but I'd told him a little about who the car was from, what it meant.  

"Can't have those fine feathers ruined," I said. His fingers closed around mine, warm and gentle "Whatever would Mr Antoff say, that I was contributing to such crimes against style?"  

"Bill works at Antoffs," Travie said by way of explanation. He picked up his hat and the wrapped gift next to it.  

"They have fancy suits," Mr McCoy sounded approving. "Maybe you can talk my son out of that vest he insists on wearing."  

"I like that vest," Travis said, ushering his parents toward the door. It sounded like an old argument, one born of fondness and familiarity. Affection, rather than affront.  

"It was nice to meet you, Mr and Mrs McCoy," I said, "enjoy your evening."  

There's pot roast in the kitchen," Travie said over his shoulder.   

"I can feed myself," I said. This felt like an old argument, too. Comforting.  

"I've yet to see the evidence," Travis said.   

"You do need feeding," Mrs McCoy said. "I'll send more stew this Sunday. My momma's recipe will put meat on those long bones."  

“ _Mother_." Travis sounded pained but he flashed me a smile. "Really, thanks for the loan, Bill."  

"What are friends for?" I asked. I waved them off down the stairs, and went, finally, to change into dry clothes and work out what to do with my unexpected solitude.  

***  

The stairs never felt as steep as at the end of a day at work followed an evening of classes. Each step felt a yard high as I climbed them wearily. I shifted my book bag from one shoulder to the other and it bashed against my knees. Every demanding customer in the Midwest seemed to have chosen today to visit Antoff's. By the end of the day my smile was more a grimace, and Jack's was non-existent.   

Class had been long, and frustrating. My essay had been returned covered in accusing red ink and an admonishment to "do better next time." I could have expected no less. Trying to complete an essay with ghost of Travie's lips on my palm was not entirely conducive to concentration.   

I rounded the last corner and caught the scent of beef broth and onions floating down the stairs. There'd be a hot meal waiting for me. There'd be Travie waiting for me, and this slide into something new, like a slow burning ember that was waiting to catch fire. The thought was enough for me to pick up my pace and climb the last few steps to the warmth and comfort of home.  

Travie looked up from the armchair he was curled up in. There was a new stack of records on floor but he was playing an old favourite, Muddy Waters filling the room with guitar.   

“Hey." He smiled up at me. "Long day?"   

"It felt like at least two days," I said. I hung my hat and coat on the peg and bent to unlace my boots. Travie's stood on the rug in a little patch of melting snow, and I set mine alongside. I stretched out on the sofa and closed my eyes.  

"I ate," Travie said, "but there's stew, and I bought rolls home from the diner, if you want."  

"In a little while," I said. I rolled onto my side and made a long arm to grab the top record.   

"Janey's new record?" I said, reading the notes. "Did you listen?"  

"Not yet," Travie said.  He got up to put the record on the turntable, sliding Muddy back into his sleeve. "I only picked it up today. I thought I'd wait for you- I know you were looking forward to it too."  

The little kindnesses should have stopped surprising me by now, but they hadn't. I wondered if they ever would.  

"That's - kind of you," I said.  I smiled, and he smiled back, the same way he did when I took second helpings. Delighted and fond, as much home as these four walls. He put the needle down and and we listened to the crackle of static before the piano began.  

"Music's better with two," he said simply.  

"I thought that was dancing,"  

"That can be arranged,” he said. He took two paces forward to couch, socked feet pressing into the rug.   

"Oh?" I said.  

"Come on.” He held out his hand and I put mine into it. He pulled me to my feet and I bumped into his chest, clumsy from the sudden momentum. "Dance with me?"   

The opening song finished and the next one began, a slow, heavy beat and Janey's voice a suggestive curl among the guitars.  

"To this song?" I asked, but I was already curling my arm around his shoulder to pull him close.  

"To all the songs,” he murmured in my ear. 

He stepped back so that we weren't bumping into the sofa with every sway. I was close enough to smell the faint remains of his cologne, like clean water and limes, still clinging to his skin. We didn't really have the space for showy dancing; instead we shuffled around in a circle, socked feed shushing over the carpet. Travie's sweater was soft under my fingers, heat from his body bleeding through the wool.  

"I wasn't sure you danced,” I said at last. I curled my arm to bring him closer and slipped my hand from his shoulder to the small of his back. No more caution, I decided. This small risk seemed bigger than it should have.   

"I thought I'd been quite clear on that," Travie's voice was a whisper. His lips brushed my ear, and I sighed. "You could have asked. I'd have answered." We were pressed close now, chests brushing every time we breathed. Matching inhale and exhale like a band in perfect time.   

I rested my head on his shoulder, eyes closed. "Odd as it sounds, this isn't something I'm well-versed in." Our feet shuffled across the rug. Travie's thumb brushed across my wrist. "It's not professional, it's a very different relationship. I wasn't sure, and I didn't want to risk this. What you are to me."  

"What's that?" Travie laid his cheek against mine. I could feel the roughness of his stubble.   

“Home." I said, honestly.   

" _Bill_ ," Travie's voice shook and cracked on that one word, and my name had never sounded like that before. I turned my head and swallowed the sound in a kiss.  

His mouth opened under mine at once, and it was so soft, so gentle, a press of lips against mine, until I slipped my hand from his to curl around the nape of his neck to get as close as I could. All pretense of dancing forgotten, we stood in the centre of the room and kissed and kissed.   

He made a little sound, part chuckle, part gasp, and swayed toward me. He was careful, always so careful, like I was made of glass, something rare and precious, and he was afraid I might break. I wanted to tell him I wouldn't, but I wasn't altogether sure that was true.  

The music played on and we shuffled in a circle, all notion of rhythm gone. Travie kissed me once more and then rested his head on my shoulder. I could see a smile at the edge of his mouth.  

“Home?” he asked. It took me a while to remember.   

“I think so. Part of it,” I said, searching for the words. “You treat me like. Like I'm something to be cherished.”   

“I do,” he said “God. _Bill_. That you every thought you _shouldn't_ be.”   

I tilted his head up, and kissed him again.  

"What happens now?" I asked, eventually. The record played on. Travie's hand rested on my hip.  

"Right now?" Travie asked. "Or tomorrow? Or the day after?"  

"Any or all," I said, not wanting to push thing, even now.  

"Right now, I 'd like to kiss you again.” Travie pressed on my hip, turning us in a circle.  

"I'd like that too." I leaned in again for another kiss, sweet and slow. Not a perfunctory precursor to the main event, or the messy urgency of a man determined to get his money's worth. Travis kissed me like he'd be happy to do this, and nothing more, for as long as I wanted.   

"And tomorrow?" Travis asked, breath puffing against my cheek. "What then?"  

"You could kiss me again," I smiled.   

"I'd like that very much." Travis said. "The day after?" He pulled me even closer so that we touched from chest to knees, hands clasped between us.  

"Again, and again, and again, for as long as you'd like," I said. His stubble was dark along his jaw, and buzzed against my lips as I kissed him there.   

"What about if I want to kiss you other places?” Travis teased. He mouthed down my neck, kissing as far as he could. I tilted my head back to let him.  

"You can, _ohh_ , you can kiss me wherever you want,” I said. "I can't overstate how much you should do that."   

"Hmmm," Travis said against my skin, and kissed me once more before stepping back. He didn't let go of my hand.  

"That sounds like something I'd like too," he said.  

He kissed my fingertips. "But we don't have to do it all at once."  

"We don't?" I couldn't keep the thread of disappointment out of my voice. He kissed my hand again, pressing his mouth to the palm, across my knuckles, swirling his tongue along my fingers and them leaving me with a long, lingering kiss to my wrist. He seemed particularly fond of that part of me. I wasn't complaining.  

"No need to rush," he said. "We have time. All the time we need."  

I thought of that. Weeks and months stretching into an undefined future full of - possibilities. Full of classes, good food, good music, good friends, in a city that was once again becoming home. Full of Travis, always, home and hearth and so much more.  

I slid both arms around him, and kissed him again.  

"Yes," I said. "We do."


End file.
